


Midnight's Mischief

by bellesque



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Cinderella Elements, F/M, Fluff, POV Second Person, Prince Loki (Marvel), Reader request, Reader-Insert, Waltzing, no y/n
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24571939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellesque/pseuds/bellesque
Summary: You only wanted to feel like a princess for a night.You didn't think you'd meet an actual prince.(Originally a oneshot, based on reader's request in notes.)
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader, Loki (Marvel)/You, Loki/Reader, Loki/you
Comments: 29
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Request: idk if your requests are open still but royal loki concept with a midgardian reader— yeah? maybe? take it wherever you want from there and be creative because your other fics are and just amAZING!
> 
> Listen you can't give me so much freedom like this because I feel in my bones this is going to turn into a multichaptered fic and I've got a million other wips side-eyeing me right now  
> BUT anyway, please enjoy!

**BEING IN A** whimsical, fairytale ball has always been high on your list of escapism fantasies.

You wondered if princess parties (like the ones in movies) were actually real when royalty was still a thing. If they got to attend extravagant, lavish balls in venues that seemed to reach the high heavens, with castle corridors illuminated by candlelight and crystal chandeliers. Whether fact or fiction, you’ve never been more excited for a night than you are now.

Just for tonight, you allow the indulgence of looking—and feeling—like royalty.

Your heels clack against the marbled tiles of the venue as you and your friend Leigh navigate your way to the Regency Ballroom. Careful not to trip over your ball gown, you glance at Leigh. Beside you she shimmies, adjusting the top of her gown to fit her boobs better.

“I feel twelve,” she mutters, brazenly cupping her breasts.

“Oh, please. As if you’ve never wanted to be a princess for a night.”

“I mean, yeah, when I was _twelve._ And I’m saying this with love, but the fact that you’ve got on a fucking _crown_ isn’t exactly helping me feel like an adult here.”

Your cheeks grow warm. “I’m sure I’m not the only one,” you say, a little defensive. “And by the way, it’s a _tiara._ ”

Leigh smirks at you, perfectly painted lips curling at the edges. “Twenty bucks?”

“Fifteen.”

_“Bo-ring.”_

“Fine.”

She claps her hands, looping her arm with yours. The Regency Ballroom is right ahead. “I hope you know that I agreed to this because you said there’d be some yummy men. Potential knights in shining armor, all that jazz.”

“And I value your honesty,” you say, nodding a thank you to the servers who open the large doors as you approach. “But, for the record—”

“Whoa, the organizers of this thing were _not_ playing.”

It’s true: the place is more than what you imagined from the email invite you received prior. Aside from the grandeur of the venue itself, the entire ambience transports you into what feels like another world entirely. Soft, regal music swells from the mini orchestra that plays on the raised platform, and everyone’s dressed in gowns of all colors and periods and styles.

It makes you a little giddy to see everyone commit to the event to such an extent. You wish this becomes a regular occasion.

“You don’t mind if I ditch you, right? If I, _hypothetically_ , find someone cute?” Leigh grabs a glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Because I saw this guy in a tailcoat on the way inside, and he was kinda giving me looks already, so…”

Leigh is neither best friend nor fair weather friend. She’s in town for a few days, and having been partners in a high school class once, she somehow felt the need to ring you up, pleading for you to take her anywhere because she was dying of boredom.

You mentioned that you had an extra ticket, and she said yes before you could even finish your sentence and tell her it was to a costume ball.

“Hey, no worries,” you beam, plucking the wine glass from her fingers and taking a dainty sip, “by all means, mingle! Meet someone! Get swept off your feet! It’s a party. It’s what I was going to do whether or not you came anyway, so don’t be too guilty.”

“Okay, great!” She kisses you on the cheek. “Because he’s kind of already waiting.” Leigh jerks her head to the buffet table across the room, where a broad-shouldered man stands tentatively, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He’s clearly waiting for someone—that someone specifically being Leigh, if the not so surreptitious glances your way are any indication.

Before she can leave, a lady with a hoop skirt that’s draped more than the large windows of the ballroom comes into your peripheral, something glittering atop her bouffant hair.

You lift your chin at Leigh triumphantly. “Pay up first, baby, you saw that tiara.”

“Fifteen.”

“You said twenty!”

“I changed my mind!” she calls as she lifts the hem of her gown off the floor, retreating. Laughing, Leigh waves and you bring up a hand as the man places a meaty hand on her shoulder blade.

Well. You knew you’d lose her for the night. Just not this quickly.

Still, what you said is true. Leigh’s absence doesn’t dampen your mood. You’re happy standing by the tables at the side, observing people and their different gowns, with a glass of rosé in hand. Couples trickle into and out of the ballroom dance floor; others mingle by the tables like you, occasionally nibbling on the fanciest finger food you could ever imagine. The light reflecting from the gorgeous, majestic chandelier dances over the partygoers, and you revel in the moment, wanting to commit this to memory. Simply existing in it. The minuet transitions into a waltz, and more people and their partners taking to the dance floor with excited grins on their faces.

You _would_ like to take your dress out for a twirl at some point before the night ends. If only a gentleman were to ask.

“That’s a lovely color on you, my lady.”

 _Speak of the—_ you turn around, glad you didn’t startle so much to the point of spilling perfectly good wine, to face whoever spoke to you. A subtle smirk plays on the face of a lithe man dressed in what looks to be costume straight out of a period film. Or fantasy period film. It doesn’t really make sense, but somehow he makes it work.

You glance down at your gown: a rich forest green with silver detailing cinched around your waist. “Oh, uh… thanks.” You smile politely.

Only it falters after a couple seconds, because he pins you with an expectant look. “My… lord…?” you try, uncertain.

Satisfaction spreads across his face, confusing you mildly. Did he really wait to be addressed…?

“Would you care to dance?” he asks, taking a step towards you and bending forward. A bow, you realize, as he holds the posture while awaiting your answer.

“O-okay, sure.”

You slip your hand in his outstretched one, his slender fingers clasping around you and leading you gently to the middle of the dance floor. His back is as straight as a board as he guides you towards him, and when you’re a pace away he pulls you closer. His hand settles on the small of your back, yours on his shoulder.

And then you’re waltzing; slowly, tentatively, shyly. Though he takes the lead you can’t follow as well as you should, your bafflement blocking you from waltzing like you do in your daydreams. And as weird as it sounds, he’s distracting you from dancing—even if you’re dancing with him.

He’s good-looking. Strong, cutting features with a regal gait. He stands much taller than you are, his head angled down towards you so his green eyes pierce you with the intensity of the sun at high noon.

He doesn’t break eye contact with you. As much as you try to look away, fixate your attention instead on the couples that sway around you, your gaze _always_ finds his. And he probably hasn’t looked away from you once. There’s no malice in it though—he regards you with somewhat of a silent, amused curiosity.

If it’s awkward to be dancing with a good-looking stranger who seemingly can’t take his eyes off you, it doesn’t help that you’re both painfully silent. You expect him to make polite small talk as he guides your steps—only aside from the lovely orchestra playing and the faint chatter of the attendees around you, all that’s heard is the sound of your breathing.

The music winds down, violins sustaining their last note, and your expectations are shattered once again when instead of this mystery man guiding you into a twirling finish, he spins you into the next dance.

Another waltz.

“Do I scare you, princess?” he asks, raising his chin slightly.

You jump a little at his sudden question. “Um. Maybe a little?”

The man sighs, giving a short chuckle as he shakes his head minutely. The hand on your back releases you as you circle around him, one of your arms outstretched as gracefully as you can manage, before you come back in front of him and rest your hand back on his shoulder.

“Perhaps my reputation _does_ precede me,” he mutters.

You blink, even more confused now. “Sorry?”

“Do you…” He narrows his eyes in near disbelief. “Do you not know who I am?”

“I think I’d remember if you told me your name,” you say with a sheepish laugh. Of course you’d remember. With a face like his and the rich voice to match, meeting him on a night like tonight? You’d remember it forever.

“Ah. Then—forgive me, my lady.” He pulls away from you to bow cordially. “Prince Loki, of Asgard.”

Stunned doesn’t seem to cover the emotion racing through you. No one else seems to mind that you’ve both stopped smack dab in the center for him to bow to you with a flourish of his cape. He looks up at you, expectant, _yet again_ , and so you hastily curtsy and mumble your name.

He rises, taking you once again in his arms and picking up where you left off in perfect rhythm to the music. It’s a little disorienting. Your mind struggles to catch up: so far he’s bowed to you twice, is leading you through a perfect waltz, and is, apparently, a prince.

“And your kingdom, my lady?”

“What?”

“Am I to believe you’re a princess with no people to rule over?” he smirks.

And then somehow, realization dawns on you: he’s an actor. Trying to get you into some kind of fantasy, medieval, _whatever_ character to really sell the idea to yourself that you _have_ actually been whisked away, into a story akin to fiction.

“Okay,” you snort, “since we’re doing this whole made up thing, fine, I’ll humor you. Uh”—you rack your brains, glancing at the chandelier overhead—“Genovia.”

“Genovia,” Prince Loki repeats, as though testing the name on his tongue. It comes out melodic and velvety, making you shiver involuntarily. “Sounds… quaint. Not as dreadful or painfully dull as some of the other kingdoms I’ve heard of tonight. What in the Nine is New Jersey?”

You laugh this time, an actual belly laugh, your head tipping back in mirth at his delivery. You sober up sooner than you’d like when you see he’s still absolutely mystified.

“Well, that’s what it is,” you add helpfully. “Genovia… it… yeah.”

“What are your people famous for?”

Damn. He’s really making you think. “Gosh, um…” You blow out a raspberry. “Horses? Apples? Archery? Oh! Mattress surfing.”

Prince Loki hums thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Either he’s an exceptionally good actor, or he really hasn’t seen The Princess Diaries. Or, a part of you begins to argue, he _could_ actually be who he says he is—

But that wouldn’t make sense.

Could it?

“Well, what about you?” you say quickly, seizing the opportunity to deflect. “What’s uh, what’s Asgard famous for?”

“The Realm Eternal,” Loki says, completely serious. “Warriors of strength, leaders of justice.” He pauses at your lost expression. “Have you not heard of it?”

You have a feeling he has more to say, so you shake your head. Prince Loki spins you around once, before continuing.

“Asgardians are the peacekeepers of the Nine Realms, endowed with strength of all facets to keep the realms from falling. Thwart the possible dangers it can be to itself before it starts, or finish disputes where they arise. We protect. Asgard plays a vital role, if not the most vital of all the realms.”

“And you’re their prince.”

The corners of Loki’s lips curl upwards. “One of them.”

“So you have a brother.”

You’re not sure why you’re still entertaining him at this point. The waltz’s cadence does nothing to separate you from each other, and neither does the lively first note of the polka. Instead Loki’s leading you into a quicker step, bouncing in the most poised manner you’ve ever seen a man dance in.

“Aye,” he says. “Most prefer him to myself.”

“I prefer you,” you blurt out mindlessly, immediately feeling regret in the form of heat crawling up your neck.

Prince Loki’s piercing green eyes light up in surprise. “Not many would,” he murmurs.

“Well, I mean—” you backpedal, “—I don’t—I haven’t met—”

The entrance to the ballroom rattles in its hinges, followed by a booming thud. Heads swivel to the source of the commotion and even the orchestra falters. You are no exception, craning your neck to look behind Loki and at the doors.

He is the only one who seems completely unfazed.

“Perhaps that is for the best. Ready for our big finish, princess?”

 _Bang!_ The doors swing open, and strange men in _very detailed_ costumes—metal armor, odd-shaped helmets—charge in, long spears in hand. Your mouth falls open. You’ve never seen anything like them. The attendees gasp collectively, some dancers pulling away from their partners to retreat to the sides of the room.

But Loki places his hands on your hips, lifting you off your feet and into the air, and instructs, “Eyes on me, princess.”

“Wh—” He spins you around, the world around you blurring, and you fix your attention on him so as not to get dizzy. “Prince Loki, I think we should get ou—”

He sets your feet on the ground, a mad intensity in his eyes—and Loki wraps his arms around you and kisses you.

Well. You’ve had multiple daydreams about how tonight would go. This is definitely not one of them.

His arms tighten around your waist, and swarms of butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach. Your feet are on the ground, but with your fingers and toes tingling with every soft movement of his lips against yours, it feels like you’re floating. He’s kissing you. _You’re kissing him._

The clanging of armor jolts you apart, but Loki keeps you within arm’s reach. Your heart pounds against your sternum.

“I like it when you say my name,” he murmurs.

“Prince Loki!” one of the strange men shouts. The prince in front of you flinches slightly, and then huffs in amusement.

“Don’t like it when _they_ do.”

“I—what?”

Loki sighs. “I’m afraid I have to bid you good night. And farewell.”

“Wait, who are they?” Question after question presents itself, your mind a jumbled mess and your knees still _shaking from that damn kiss_. “What do they want?”

“The Einherjar. Ah. Well.” He brushes a thumb over your cheekbone. “What’s life without a little mischief?”

“Your Highness!”

“Where is he?”

He pulls you by the elbows, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, and whispers in a voice that could melt butter, “Something to remember me by.”

And then he takes off, a cheeky grin splitting his face as he keeps his eyes trained on his pursuers, slinking through the crowd and towards a nondescript door. An exit.

The strange men sift through the partygoers. Some shake their heads in fear, cowering; others shrug. You simply hope they do not approach you. And by some mad stroke of luck, when they’re a few feet away from you—they ignore you entirely.

Loki catches your eye by the small archway, and with a mischievous wink and a heartstopping smile, he disappears with a flash of his green cape.

You exhale, a little shakily, as one armored man shouts instructions and points to the door. They bolt after him, each footfall thunderous. A few seconds tick past, and once the clatter disappears completely the orchestra warms up again.

Back to normal. Just a little. But you—you’re still reeling from what just happened.

Leigh sidles up to you, poking your side.

“So,” she says, “who was the knight in shining armor, and what’d they want with him?”

His kiss, the feel of his mouth against yours, still tingles at your lips, lingering like the warmth of a fire. You stare at the open door, still trying to make sense of _what on Earth_ just happened.

“I… I think I just met a prince.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hours pass.

They turn into days, weeks—your life goes on more or less unchanged, save for the memory of that one night.

Something about that night radiated pure magic.

You never saw him again. Or heard from him. Who were you kidding—it’s not like he left you any contact information. No number, no _real_ name, nothing tangible for you to affirm that he was definitely real and you definitely were not dreaming.

All he left you was a kiss.

_Something to remember me by._

Your own body betrays you as you feel your stomach flip in response to the echo in your mind, a vivid image of his cheeky grin conjuring up in its dusty corners. No, he didn’t leave you anything tangible, but he left you a memory. Something nothing and no one could take away.

After the ball, you couldn’t shake that there was just… _something_ about this Prince Loki. You wondered if there was any truth to his words—if he really was a prince, and if there really was an Asgard.

It took a good couple of days. You brushed it off as a performance, staged to immerse the partygoers further into the event. After the strange men with spears left, the party had picked right where it left off.

You didn’t dance.

Leigh sensed there was something that rattled you far more than the strange men, so she kept you company for the rest of the night. Never mind the cutie she picked up—Bradley, she’d told you with a dismissive wave—you were more important.

You almost believed it _was_ staged—you _had_ to. There was no other way to explain it. Whoever Prince Loki was, he was most probably an actor. Someone who signed an NDA that stated he couldn’t let anyone know his real name or get his information to preserve the magic of the night.

Right? It made perfect sense.

So why did he kiss you?

It was this simple question that kept you up for a few nights after. Was it part of his job description to kiss a random girl at this party? You debated fiercely with yourself, and it frustrated you to no end.

Mostly because you were absolutely consumed by a single kiss.

Let it go, you told yourself. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. Reasoned that a quick search on Facebook wouldn’t hurt.

It did.

You didn’t know what you were expecting, but you knew you could finally put the mystery of this Prince Loki to rest.

No socials. No online presence. He was a paid actor, plain and simple, who probably preferred to do more low-profile acting gigs, just like the costume ball.

Did it sting? A tad. But it was closure; a signal for you to stop obsessing over a stranger you’d never see again.

_Something to remember me by._

You push off your couch with an eyeroll, nettled by the butterflies in your stomach. “Stop,” you mutter aloud.

Your phone blares loudly, startling you. You recognize it as Leigh’s ringtone, so you opt to refill your coffee before returning back to your squashed corner on the couch.

“Why didn’t you answer on the first ring?” comes Leigh’s petulant whine as soon as you answer.

You snort. “Save that attitude for your boyfriend.”

“But _you’re_ my boyfriend. Girlfriend.” Leigh gives a dramatic sigh, and you chuckle, already knowing what she’s about to say. “Bradley’s busy. Can’t call me back until later.”

You arch an eyebrow as you take a sip of your coffee. “So you decide to call me?”

“Duh.”

“And what makes you think I’ll always answer?”

“Because it’s Saturday night.” There’s a shuffling sound on Leigh’s end; as if she’s propping pillows underneath her. “You’re never busy on Saturday night.”

“True,” you concede. “Saturdays are sacred.”

“Exactly!”

“Which is why I’m hanging up.”

“Hey!” You can practically hear Leigh’s pout. “You’re no fun.”

“You’re the one who called me.”

Leigh mocks you in a high-pitched voice that isn’t anything like your own. You open your mouth to deliver friendly fire back, only to be stopped by a sharp knock on your door.

“Whoa, knock, knock, who’s there, honey?” Leigh teases. “Booty call you’re not telling me about? Is that why Saturdays are so sacred? Got a secret lover that’s buttering your—”

“Leigh, shut up,” you groan, dragging yourself to the wallet you left in your bedroom. “It’s probably the pizza I ordered.”

The knock comes more insistently.

“You _suuuure_?” Leigh singsongs. You can easily picture her wagging her eyebrows at you.

“ _Yes_ , Leigh, he’s probably just in a hurry because it’s freezing outside.” You move the phone away from you. “I’m coming! Are two twenties okay?” you call towards the door, crumpling the bills in your hand.

There’s no answer.

“Boyfriend didn’t get the play?” Leigh feigns sympathy.

You sigh as you shuffle quickly to open the door. “I’m telling you, he’s not my boyfriend! Give me one sec—” You stop, eyes going wide as you look at the stranger from head to toe.

“You’re not the pizza man,” you blurt out.

His head cocks to one side as he looks down at you, puzzled. “And you’re not crown princess of Genovia. Which, by the way, does not in fact exist. You played me for a fool.”

And then he steps inside your apartment like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Leigh gasps long and loud. “Holy _shit,_ is that—”

“I’ll call you back,” you say feebly into the phone, shell-shocked at the figure standing before you.

“Prince Loki,” you breathe, stunned.

He looks… very out of place in your apartment living room. You knew he was tall from the night you danced together, but his height is now exaggerated by the size of your apartment. He moves cautiously around your cramped living room—weird, it always felt like the perfect size for you—eyes raking over your furniture and décor curiously.

“Did you lie to me to conceal your shame of not having a realm to rule over?” he questions, turning his green eyes towards you, utterly serious.

You blink. “I—”

“You should be more ashamed that you lied to me.” He clasps his hands behind his back and continues his slow pace around your living room. “I searched for you. I studied maps, tomes, records of Midgard, and none contained any information on Genovia.”

“Haven’t you seen The Princess Diaries?”

“What?” The bafflement on his face is so sincere, so innocent—you almost burst out laughing.

Except his words start to sink in, and your once amused emotions simmer back down to guarded confusion.

“You searched for me,” you repeat.

“I did. And I found you.”

 _Well, at least one of us was successful._ “Why?”

He straightens, his beautiful green eyes taking on a more urgent tone. “I need you to come with me.”

Warning bells—they go off faintly in the recesses of your mind, but in this moment your curiosity wins. “Why?” you ask again.

“I can’t explain it here.” He glances at the door behind you, then to the window behind him. “But you must come with me to Asgard. It will be safer for you there.”

This time, your rationality wins out. You let out a disbelieving bark of laughter. “Listen, buddy. I don’t know what lengths you have to go for this job of yours, or why it had to be _me,_ but the ball is over. Or”—you snap your fingers when it hits you—“Leigh! Leigh’s paying you, isn’t she? No wonder she was so weird just now!”

Prince Loki frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Huh, well, me too, buddy.” You shake your head, unable to process that you’ve found Leigh out. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why…” Prince Loki tilts his head, looking like he’s struggling to get the words out. “Why are you calling me… _buddy?”_

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that clause in your NDA was so specific. _Prince Loki,”_ you say with a flourishing bow.

“What in the _Nine_ are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?”

There’s a moment where you and Loki stare at each other in stupid silence, each entirely mystified by the other. He looks so genuine in his confusion, those _damn green eyes_ staring imploringly at you, that you feel the need to backpedal.

“I’m _so_ lost,” you finally whisper as you straighten from your bow, not taking your eyes off Loki. Both of you are frozen to your spots.

“So am I,” he says back softly, gaze fixed on you.

“How—how did you find me?” you ask after a beat of heavy silence.

Loki seems to come alive at this, broken of a trance. He clears his throat. “Well, seeing as you lied to me, it wasn’t easy. Odin helped me. As did Heimdall.”

Odin… Heimdall… unfamiliar names, but you swallow any further questions down. “And so you found me here.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t supposed to,” isn’t the answer you’re expecting, and for some reason, your traitorous heart pangs a little. “I would have much preferred it if I left you with a pleasant memory of an evening shared together, but I’m afraid I can’t do that anymore. It’s my fault you’re in danger, therefore it is my responsibility to protect you.”

Your brows knit, and your palms begin to sweat. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, danger?”

His eyes shift uneasily once more. “As I said earlier, I can’t say much here—there’s plenty to explain. Too much. The longer we stay here, the more dangerous it will be for us. My presence is strong, and the Norns know they must have been tracking you as well.”

“ _Tracking_ me?” Your voice takes on a shrill pitch. “Who?”

“Princess.” It takes two strides for Loki to reach you and grasp your hands. They’re small in his large palms. “You might not have been born one, but you may as well be one starting now. I need you to _trust me._ Every word that I’ve said. Trust that I will keep you safe—and that safety, right now, is on Asgard.”

You hesitate, albeit for a cycle of breath. Much too short a time to come to a sound decision, but if Loki is telling you the truth and you really _are_ in danger—then there’s no time to lose.

And if he isn’t, well… you’ve got years of self-defense training under your belt.

You bite your lip and look up at him, uncertain. “I’ll get my answers on Asgard?”

He nods solemnly. “You have my word.”

One shaky inhale from you. “Okay.”

Loki breathes out a sigh of relief and pulls you flush against his side. “Thank the Norns,” he mutters. Then, he turns his gaze to your ceiling. “Heimdall, we’re ready.”

For what, you have no idea—but as a bright light envelops you from all sides, you belatedly realize that you won’t be able to make good on your promise to call Leigh back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year!  
> Life's been a handful, to say the least. I finally had the energy to write, and I'm glad I had so much fun with this.  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3  
> Tumblr: www.bellesque.tumblr.com


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